May-December
by theredspool
Summary: John Watson faces life without Sherlock Holmes, and meets someone new. John Watson/Mary Morstan


Four months after Sherlock Holmes' death, John Watson wakes up.

He gets dressed and makes his tea as usual. He looks out the window onto the street and can see the leaves swirling in the gutters. It's October, and the sky is so blue against the brownish trees it makes them look orange. The tea is strong, just how he likes it, and the breeze from the cracked window is bracing in the warm sitting room.

There is a soft rapping on the lintel, and John turns away from the window. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

"Hello, dear. Just wanted to see if you were up." She smiles awkwardly, and pauses. She's been coming to the door nearly every weekday morning since Sherlock's death, stopping by a few times a day to check in on him, and to do things around the apartment, attending him as if he were an invalid. He feels like one-that damn limp came back. John makes the conscious effort to push his therapist's-and Sherlock's-diagnosis out of his mind, but 'psychosomatic' plays again and again in his ear every time he reaches for his cane.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. How are you?" He smiles, but it's a pathetic effort. She pretends not to notice.

"Very well dear, thank you..." She lingers, glancing around the place. John thinks she must see that it's much tidier with Sherlock's things gone, but not any more comfortable. Mycroft had taken the clothes and violin and the things from Sherlock's room, but left the furniture and appliances and artwork for John. And the...experiments. He left those, too. "Anything you need?" He doesn't needed anything Mrs. Hudson could give him. He can make his own tea and keep his own flat and put on a brave face, too.

"No," John smiles again, wanly. "Thanks, though, Mrs. Hudson." He freezes the polite smile again, feeling light-years away from the woman standing fifteen feet from him in the chipped old door frame.

"You're welcome. Anything you need, just give me a shout!" She says it cheerily over her shoulder as she makes her way downstairs. "And you should really get out for some fresh air. You're looking so pale, dear, and the sun won't be around at all in a few more months!"

John glances back out the window and drains the rest of his tea. Perhaps she's right. After all, the last reporter had left their doorstep a few months before. The Story of Sherlock is as dead as the Person of Sherlock is.

_Sherlock is dead,_ John reminds himself, watching a few schoolchildren scurrying across the road in bright coats. The words didn't mean much now, just a part of his usual inner monologue. The words didn't hurt him. He'd started saying them when Mycroft and Molly came to sort out Sherlock's things.

When they packed away the periodic table poster and Sherlock's unreasonable collection of antique swords, John had felt the absence so keenly in that moment he hyperventilated on his bedroom floor. Molly had held a paper bag over his face with one hand and a handkerchief to his cheeks with the other. She'd spoken softly to him over and over, "I know, darling. I know. I know, John. I'm so sorry. I know..."

Was she as sorry as him? Did she know? She'd loved Sherlock, that much had been painfully plain. Her hand had been so soft on his, when he'd regained his breath enough to notice. Her eyes were teary, too, and John knew he was being selfish. Sherlock hadn't been his alone.

John looks down at the empty tea mug and back out the window. He clears his throat. "Just a turn round the block," he says to no one. "To the park."

He takes the cane and hears the haughty pronouncement of 'psychosomatic' over his shoulder. The stairs take some time, but the sunshine is bright and welcoming, and the breeze is slight and cool. He starts down the street slowly, taking in pieces of the people around him. A tweedy hat or a set of sleek leather gloves. One woman holds a folded umbrella with a shocking pink handle shaped like a piglet. He passes the nearby park. There are benches around a fountain and a blonde girl is sketching it. A man with dreadlocks walks his Yorkie. Alive, presumably whole people with families and friends and memories untainted by violent death.

John Watson has had enough death. He became a doctor so he could fight death, but his practice and his tour in the army had sapped the fight right out of him. Death was inevitable, and often ugly. He had challenged it many times. He wasn't afraid of death, but scornful of it. Sherlock Holmes had made him forget about death for a little while-or at least made him care more about life. But...

_Sherlock is dead. _The bitterness burns in his throat.

He walks around the block once and heads back to 221B.

He doesn't go out for another stroll for two weeks. He leaves the apartment only to shop and to work (part-time clinician work, mundane and _boring_, as Sherlock would say).

Mrs. Hudson comes round as usual, poking her head in, bringing him tea he never asked for, and occasionally making him dinner. ("You look a bit off dear-some of my pork pie will do you right up!") She encourages him to get out and make friends, or to have a drink with Molly or have a date. John shrugs her off politely and thanks her for the pie before shutting the door in her face.

_It really is pathetic isn't it?_ he thinks, watching the sky outside darken from grey to lightest purple. _Me, with only a sweet old lady and a sweet young pathologist as friends. My keepers, really. Nurses._

_Maybe it is time to get out a bit. _The idea of making friends who aren't Sherlock is very nearly absurd. _Maybe a few more walks. Get used to being around people before I go and start talking to them._

He goes out every morning he has off and rounds the block. He passes flats and chip shops and the park. Lots of dogs. Maybe he should get a dog.

After about ten morning walks, he decides to sit in the park. Maybe one day he'll even nod a greeting at someone.

He sits on a bench by the fountain, cane laid across his knees. The blonde girl he saw on his first walk is there. He's seen her on a handful of his walks, and he wonders how many pages this fountain has claimed of her little black sketchbook. She must feel him looking at her, because she glances up and meets his eyes. Hers are grey, and he's embarrassed. She just smiles faintly and goes back to her drawing as if he wasn't there.

He comes to the fountain a few times a week. Sometimes she's not there, but she usually is. They don't talk. Sometimes John brings a book, or some stale bread to feed the squirrels and pigeons with.

Whoever she is, she's young. Much younger than him, early-to-mid twenties, perhaps. Post-university-fairly recently, he thinks. Obviously an artist of some kind, at least as a hobby.

(The habit of deducing comes back to him slowly at first, then faster. He would practice on the tube or in the grocery when Sherlock wasn't there to make it pointless.)

She is a natural blonde, and her hair is twisted into a messy knot at the back of her head. Her nails are bare and trimmed short. She has pearl studs in-probably fake, considering she's a poor recent-graduate. Wait, only one stud. He sees her right ear is bare when she turns her head to peer at a grunting bulldog. He hopes it _was_fake pearl.

She is wearing a cardigan, which endears her to him. (He owns many.) Hers has a hole in the left hip, where it probably snagged on the hardware of her shoulder bag, which is sitting beside her on the bench.

He does this three times a week, building his (rather pitiful) knowledge of her slowly. After two weeks of visits to the park, he's seen her six times. The seventh time, they smile politely as usual, and John sits down and opens his novel.

"Good book?"

John looks up to see the girl smiling at him, eyebrows raised expectantly. He glances to both sides, unsure if she is addressing him, but she must be, mustn't she?

"Um, very," he stutters. It's an automatic answer. "Actually-" He's been so out of touch with actual small talk for so long, hasn't he? "It's alright. A bit...formulaic, I suppose." After watching Sherlock solve a case, regular mystery novels don't seem much like mysteries.

She nods. "You come here a lot lately, and we always seem to be awkwardly seated in silence, so I thought I should break the ice."

"Is-is it awkward?" He's half-nervous (has he been inadvertently creepy?) and half-encouraged (_Make friends,_ Mrs. Hudson says in his head). "I thought it rather pleasant." Oh, no, that's insulting. "I mean-comfortable."

The girl looks thoughtful. "Yes, that's true. I'll just leave off then, shall I?" She smiles, but there's a challenge in it.

He stands and turns on the Watson Charm; the tap creaks with rust. "No, not at all-"

"No, no!" She waves her left hand nonchalantly. "This park is a chatter-free zone."

"Then how about the tea shop across the way?" He's not sure what makes him say it. Well, he is. He's lonely and she's pretty (_and_ far_ too young for you,_ he tells himself.) "I can tell you about this actually-rather-dreadful book and you can tell me about those drawings of yours."

She looks taken aback and blushes heartily. "Oh! Well-I-they're nothing, really...actually..." She looks up at him, sheepish. "A great deal of them are of you. You know, because you're here so often and right across the way from me." She exhales the explanation hurriedly, not meeting his eyes again.

"Oh." John clears his throat and feels himself stiffening into his familiar officer's stance, as he often did when he felt off his guard. "May I...have a look?"

"Sure..." She moves her bag and scoots over on the bench and smiles, eyes down, opening the book. John sits with his hands on his knees, peering over into her lap.

After a few pages of some small children and the very fountain in front of them she pauses. Then she turns the page.

There are dozens of drawings of him. He's reading, or feeding the pigeons. One ankle resting on his knee or both feet solidly resting on the ground; a hand extended to drop a chunk of bread. His cane is always leaning on the bench next to him. He's not sure what he expected, but they're not bad at all-very delicate and minimal with thin, fluid lines. He's not sure what to say, so he just nods as she turns the pages.

After about four pages there's a half-done drawing of him from today. Same sweater and shoes. "These are..." He's not sure what to say, but he feels he should say something. "Very good," he decides, and tilts his head to look at her.

She closes the book and wraps her fingers around it protectively, pressing it down onto her knees. "You think so? Thank you. I took a few art classes at uni, but you know." She's smiling openly again, clearly pleased. She shrugs and looks into his eyes for a long moment. "How about that tea?"

The tea shop is tiny and steamy and perfect against the rising winds of November. They order and sit near the window. He's reminded of another time he sat at the window with a virtual stranger. But this _was _a date. At least, he hopes it is. _She's too young for you, _But this time Sherlock is saying it, dismissively as ever. _Honestly, John, it's as if you don't want to have a functional relationship._

Her name is Mary Morstan, and she's 25 (_Twenty-five! _his better judgment screams) and a part-time nanny for some wealthy London family. There are two young children she looks after when they come home from school, and when their parents are working late or traveling. "I like it, but it's not a forever job. I admit I'm not quite sure what I want to do with myself. What is it that you do, Mister...?"

"Doctor, actually. Doctor John Watson." He's half-embarrassed, half-confident as he says it. He doesn't want to come off as full of himself, but he's not sure he's ever been more glad to have an impressive job.

Her reaction is about what he expected. "A doctor!" She smiles, looking indeed impressed. "Really? What kind of medicine?"

He tries to maintain humility, but can't help a small smile. "Just general stuff right now, but I was a surgeon. In the army. Until about two years ago." He doesn't look at his cane. He doesn't want to remember the injury or what the turn of events it sparked.

"I see. I suppose I should have known! About the army, I mean." They are interrupted when their tea arrives. Mary Morstan takes hers with two sugars and milk; the opposite of his entirely. When she turns her head to thank the waitress he sees the space where her earring should be.

"Oh, I meant to mention before-It seems you're missing an earring." He gestures with his teacup.

Her hand flies to her earlobe. "Oh _no_!" She looks impossibly distressed, and John supposes the pearls are real after all. "It must have fallen out while I was walking the kids to school this morning! I'll never hope to find it. _Damn! _Damn, damn!" She strikes the table sharply and immediately flushes. "I am _so_ sorry. These earrings just have a lot of...sentimental value to me. Actually, I was going to say before, about the army. I should have known you were a soldier. See, my father was an officer himself. A Captain. He gave me the earrings."

She looks down at her tea and stops to sip it before going on. "Not to get too heavy too fast, but he went missing when I was in fourth form. Presumed dead, of course, but..."

John knows this story well. He's known several stories just like it. Occasionally he'd had to deliver that sort of news. "But?" he inquires gently, looking closely at her face. It's apprehensive and sad and hesitant.

But then her face relaxes and she shrugs. "I dunno. I suppose families always hold out that hope. You must know that." Her gaze is direct and honest, and he nods back seriously.

"I'm afraid I do, all too well."

She looks at his cane but doesn't say anything about it.

"Anyway, you reminded me a bit of him. That posture, and a sort of authority." She shakes her head and laughs, looking a bit ashamed. "Sorry, I'm sure that comparison was a bit odd. You're just sort of...familiar to me. I promise you I'm not hung up on men like my dad or anything like that."

"Of course not!" He says with a straight face, but not without humor. "I am a Captain, though..."

They laugh together and smile in silence for a moment. "I wonder if you're free from watching your charges this weekend-Saturday maybe? We can see a movie or something."

"I'd like that." She smiles and then leans in conspiratorially. "I have to say, before anything else goes on...it doesn't bother you that I'm a bit younger, does it? People get a bit weird about age difference, and I want to make sure we're on the same page."

His eyes trail down her neck reflexively, and a slice of slender collarbone and the taut swell of her breasts are visible in the vee of her blouse. _Younger. _

He closes his eyes, and exhales through his nose. "Of course not. Not-if it doesn't bother you...?"

She smiles and catches her lip briefly between her teeth. "Of course not."

John decides to wait a respectful number of dates to kiss her for the first time. He wants to do it right. He's not sure what makes Mary Morstan different from the others, but he's done things one way for so long, and it clearly hasn't gotten him any lasting relationships (although Sherlock certainly didn't help).

Mary waits for him to kiss her (despite her outward confidence, he can sense that she is unsure how to proceed with an older man). On the third date, he does, and he can taste her impatience in the press of her lips and the way her body relaxes against his. Her hair and her skin are soft, and she smells so good. She slides her arms around his neck and her tongue against his. It feels so good he doesn't ever want to stop, but she has work in the morning and he's promised himself he'll do things right.

It's the first time he's felt...not _alone _since Sherlock died. John smiles so hard as he boards the tube and speeds home. He's near tears as he climbs the steps to 221B. He's afraid, and he hates it, but he knows too well what it's like to be alone and he doesn't want this feeling to escape again. So, he mustn't let it.

_Thank you so much for tonight. I can't wait to see you again. xxx J._

He doesn't notice until the morning that he walked back from her place without the cane.

About a month into the courtship, John invites her to Baker Street to make her dinner. Mrs. Hudson offers him a few lessons ("You must _really like_ this girl, don't you?" she says with a saucy look) and he notices she washed his sheets for him. He has to laugh at that, but a rather large part of him is hopeful that her instinct is correct. He buys condoms just in case and hides them in the drawer on his bedside table. He spends the day arranging the furniture and triple-checking his ingredients. He runs out twice for extra curry powder.

Mary arrives slightly early with a bottle of wine and a block of cheese. She looks comfortable and beautiful in jeans and a loose white sweater under her green coat. "I hope I'm not too underdressed," she blushes slightly, glancing at his slacks and loafers. He mentally slaps his forehead.

"Of course not. I'm sorry, I guess I got a little overexcited." He doesn't usually give away that information, but he is allowing himself to be vulnerable and let the Watson Charm have a night off. Or turn _itself_ on, at the very least. He doesn't want to try anymore. Not with Mary. It's as natural as he's ever felt.

"You look lovely." He kisses her hello.

He pours the wine and she arranges the cheese. He lit a few candles before answering the door, which he half-regrets because it hardly indicates his desire to be natural.

"So, what are we having?" She sips her wine and cranes her neck to look into the kitchen. "Smells delicious."

"It's a curry recipe I know." _Well, one that Mrs. Hudson knows. _"I know you like Indian, so I thought we could give it a go at home."

She looks delighted. "How lovely! Thank you so much!" She sets her wine on the table and draws her arms around his neck in that way that reminds him of their first kiss. He kisses her soundly for several minutes before remembering to check the curry. Thankfully it hasn't come to trouble, and John  
breathes a very heavy sigh of relief.

They eat and chat and John can't believe how at ease he is. He can imagine this being _their _place. They could make dinner together every night and talk about their respective days. He has to stop himself from thinking about the future. It's far too soon to be thinking these thoughts, and he worries it could be the looming specter of his loneliness talking.

"Everything is wonderful, John. Thank you so much for taking the trouble to make me curry! I don't think any man has ever done so much to make me feel welcome."

John has to doubt that, but he appreciates that she wants to make him feel special. All he wants to do is make her feel special. "You are very welcome," his tone is warm, voice pitched lower than he intended. "Anytime you like. It's never any trouble at all."

She smiles at him. "I'm so glad to be getting to know you, John. It's such a relief to find someone that I get along with so easily." Her hand covers his, warm and soft and small.

John looks into her eyes and feels the urge in his gut to tell her everything. "I feel _exactly _the same way. I want to know everything about you. I want you to know everything about me. Even the bits I usually don't show to anyone, even myself."

"Well," she smiles. "We have all night. What did you want to tell me about?"

It all pours out of him. He's held it in so long it's a wonderful and automatic release.

"You know I was an army doctor, and that I was injured-you can't have missed the cane, although I don't have to use it anymore, thanks in large part to you-but you_don't_ know that when I was discharged I went through months of therapy and depression and loneliness until I met a man who changed my life forever." Sherlock's face swims before his eyes, a little faded and blurred by memory. "I met my best friend Sherlock Holmes and-I _swear_-he knew everything about me within moments of our meeting. Just..._everything_! We lived here for a year and a half and I helped him with his work and I _swear _to you we were not gay." He pauses a moment to reflect, brow wrinkling. "Well,_ I'm_ not-not so sure about Sherlock, but I don't think he was into much of anything at all. But...he made me feel alive again, and like I wasn't alone. And then he died."

John looks up, and he finally notices how taken aback Mary looks and stops short. He can hardly blame her-he hadn't counted on terrifying Mary with this confession tonight. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. This is all too much, I know-"

"No-I mean, yes, it is quite a lot. But look. I've known you were connected to that Sherlock Holmes for some time-since after our first date at the tea shop. I Googled you." She blushes and sips her wine self-consciously. "I suppose I should've have realized why you looked familiar. He was all over the news for weeks. Maybe I should have said something sooner, but I didn't want to give you the idea that I was just dating you because you'd been in the news or something." Her face was earnest and sympathetic and a little pleading. "I'll make some tea, and you can go on and tell me everything you need to say."

And he does. He explains the pain and horror and confusion of watching his closest and most infuriating friend tip off the edge of a hospital roof to his death. He had hoped so, so _hard _that this was a trick; one of Sherlock's brilliant plans, but it wasn't. He was dead. _Sherlock is dead. _He had felt Sherlock's wrist himself and there was no beat of blood. No precious sign of life. No hope left as they rolled his blood-soaked body away. He watched them lower the body into the grave and he stayed until the last shovelful of dirt landed on the pile.

But he hadn't cried. No, he didn't even cry-not truly-when he went back the second time to the grave site to plead, absurdly, for his friend to come back. To magically reappear-wasn't that what Sherlock had said? It was all a magic trick.

"I've seen so much death, Mary. So much death in tents and in surgery theatres and in the backs of army vans. I suppose I was foolish to think it couldn't  
touch me here."

Mary's grey eyes shine with tears and she squeezes his hand hard.

"I was so angry with Sherlock for leaving me. It took me a month or so to get there, but I finally did, after the denial went away. I realized that there was no plan. I thought I knew him. I fancied that I was his best friend, but I suppose it wasn't enough to make him want to live." John remarks upon all of this calmly. He's sad, but the months of reflection have dulled his feelings to regret and acceptance. "I was angry for a while, then I just felt empty." He squeezes her hand back and lifts his eyes to meet hers. "Until I met you."

Her mouth is drawn and serious. Her head tilts forward and her shoulders sag as she exhales.

John has to laugh at himself, and Mary looks surprised. "I'm sorry, Mary. This was hardly the romantic evening I had in mind. The point isn't Sherlock, or my feelings about what he did. The point is that I really, really like you, and I want to do everything I can not to cock this up because you gave me back something incredible. I told you about Sherlock because I want you to know everything there is to know about me." He pauses to search her face. "Did I cock things up after all?"

Mary smiles weakly and touches her forehead to his. "Of course not. It's quite a bit to take in, but I hope you think more highly of me than to think I'd bolt at the first sign of a grey cloud! Look-I will need a bit of time to process all of this. You're in a vulnerable place, and I want us both to feel...respected going through it. But I want to be perfectly clear: I care for you very much, and I'm so glad that I make you feel this way, because you make me feel as lovely and special as anyone."

She pulls back to look into his eyes and he draws her forward to kiss her gently.

Mary stays that night, but nothing happens. He holds her close and they laugh at the telly until they both fall asleep.

The first time something _does _happen, John is prepared. It's been two weeks since the outburst over curry, and Mary's been nothing but good. She texts every morning on her way to work, sometimes drops by the clinic at lunch to give him a sandwich (to remind him to eat as much as to show her care); she comes back for dinner most nights, or they go to her place and sit on her fire escape wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea.

This night is the third straight night Mary has stayed over (her heating is busted and the late November temperature is dropping steadily). It's a Friday night, and they're trying to decide between Indian (again) or Greek, but they just end up eating a bag of crisps and some white wine and forget the menus after awhile. John reaches out to her on the couch and touches her face. He looks into her eyes and her smile and he can feel the warmth of the wine in her pink cheeks. She sets her glass on the coffee table and crawls toward him, nudging him back against the arm of the chair and pressing her lips into his throat.

He sighs and runs his hands under her sweater, over her too-warm skin. She reaches up and pulls his head down to hers, her mouth warm and soft and so lovely that he barely recognizes the noise that escapes from his throat. She hums with approval and slides her tongue against his. She tastes tart and slightly salty; it's intoxicating, and he moves to lift her sweater over her head. She lets him.

His mouth and tongue ghost over her neck, collarbones, the tops of her breasts, and he slips her bra down to lick her nipple with a pointed tongue. He looks up into her face; her eyes are closed, mouth parted slightly. John scratches a nail over her nipple and her breath hitches. She opens her eyes and smiles down at him, reaching back to unhook her bra.

_This is happening, _John realizes, and hurriedly ditches his own shirt. He remembers the condoms...are in the bedroom. _Shit. _But he supposes there's no rush, is there? Mary kisses down his chest and unbuttons his trousers. She pulls the zipper down with her _teeth_.

_No rush at all. _He sighs pleasantly as her mouth closes over him.

Light filters through the windows of 221B Baker Street, and Mary is curled tightly, cozily, into John's side. He opens his eyes and smiles when she nestles into him, squirming cutely and murmuring. _She looks so young, _he thinks, and blinks at her affectionately. _She __**is **__so young, _a voice reminds him. But he ignores it, because he's happy, and for once he is not thinking about Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
